Hello, Goodbye
by omgnotagainplz
Summary: It's friendship, or death. It's hello, or goodbye. It's a warm motel room and a turkey pot pie, or it's death again. In what might be Michael's final days, it's Trevor's way, or the dead way. Rated M
1. Hello

**Hello, Goodbye**

**Chapter 1: Hello**

**Michael's POV**

And though there were bodies piling, and my morals were slowly falling into the toilet, I kept that rifle in my hands, and I just kept shooting. I could barely even see the flying bullets going past, clonking the enemies in the head, or occasionally the chest, depending on current accuracy.

"T, I'm outta' bullets!" The hoarse voice rose from my throat, and I hoped to god I didn't reveal his vantage point, where he was supposed to be sniping the others. But when no bullets came, and no voice responded through the headpiece, Worry came through me. "Frank, you there?!" I called, looking for a sign of response.

Static arose from my ear piece, and I sighed with relief. "Yeah, Mike, what is it?" Franklin responded, his flurry of bullets being heard by me from the other side of the building.

"Is T still up there?! He hasn't responded!"

"Shit! I'm on it, M, I just gotta-"

And that's when the explosion sounded, and the voice subsided, leaving me in mystery as to whether or not either of them were still hanging in there.

But I can't exactly get to that part of the story yet without telling you the very beginning.

_Xxx __2 Months Back xxX_

They say that you can't fully appreciate something until it's gone. But that philosophy isn't something taken seriously. Well, at least not in my book. It's actually the opposite. You should fully appreciate something in the short while that you have it. I'd say I was able to do appreciate things around me pretty well.

"You fat little shit, I am done with you hiding your weed in the fridge! Do you think that your mother and I would be so fucking clueless not to see it in there?!"

Jimmy jumped out of his bed defensively, reaching for the bag. "Gimme the fucking bag!" My silence gave a definitive 'no'. "You know what, you're the fucking hypocrite, keeping your liquor out on the counter for any of us just to take a swig! You don't care if we become alcoholics, but the second we keep our weed in the fridge, you go ape shit on us!"

Without another word, I find myself tossing the bag on the floor, walking out of the room with the slam of a door. And so, even after making up with my wife and kids, I always seem to find myself back alone again. But there's always someone to turn things around. Or at least, distract me.

"Yo, T. Be at your place in an hour, we're going drinking." I answered after Trevor had answered the phone not two rings in.

"Ah, you're speakin' my language, Buddy!" Before I kept the conversation going, a certain package at the door caught my eye.

"I… gotta take a rain check, actually." A lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it. "I got a package from Dave."

Dave was an acquaintance of mine. A friend from the FIB. Getting packages from the FIB wasn't exactly something I liked to see.

"Dave? What the fuck does he want? I thought he was done with us after that whole Devin Weston shit!" The all too hot-tempered Trevor Phillips bristled, and I could just see his angered scowl.

"He's just been on my case for not doing his dirty work. I'll call you later." Not too much later, I heaved the box onto the couch next to me, praying to god it was just a birthday present or something.

But as I examined the outrageously large stack of papers wrapped tightly on the inside, my cell chose the perfect time to ring, flashing his picture on the screen.

"Michael," He began in his chirpy voice. "You get my package?"

"Yeah I got your fucking package, what is this?" I knew something wasn't right about this. And as I suspected it was a threat, it turned out to be just that.

"It's a threat." I rolled my eyes. _No brainer, Dave._ "I know I said to keep a low profile, but that doesn't mean that you can just forget about us completely, Michael. We have work for you to do, and ways to get you to do it. Read the name on the first folder."

Reaching into the box, praying quite paranoidly there wasn't a bomb, I grabbed the first folder.

_The Criminal Case History of Michael Townley_

"You wouldn't dare." I uttered, throwing it back on the ground.

"If you don't believe me, we mustn't as good friends as I thought." He retorted, a smug smile taking place on his face, or so I suspected.

"What the fuck are you doing with these?"

"What else could I do? If you don't do what I say, your criminal records go out into the open, and under the name 'Michael De Santa'. I suggest you kiss your movie career goodbye, along with the money left in your bank account."

"Take whatever the fuck you want, but I promised myself I wasn't getting caught up in all this again!"

"And an empty promise is what I'm hoping that was." He lowered his voice. "Michael, take this as a warning. If you don't give me the answer I want, we'll just have to find another way to reach you."

"Do what you must, but I advise you try and catch me on a good day." I quipped icily.

"You and your humor." He chuckled.

"I try." Was my blatant response.

"I'll be hearing from you, then." Before hanging up, he said one more thing. "Don't disappoint me." And then came the beeping. The indicators showing that you've finished your call, Your conversation, and the choice to retaliate head on. But something in me made me accept those beeping rings, and I hung up as well, setting the phone on the end table, grabbing for my whiskey before turning on the TV. There was quite a bit of decisions to make, but there just didn't seem to be enough time.

"Michael, wanna' play a round of tennis?" Amanda's voice sounded in front of me, and I opened his eyes to find her handing me a racket.

_Appreciate something in the short while that you have it._

"Eh, sure." I shrugged, lifting myself off the couch with a grunt. "Ain't got nothin' better to do."

"Oh, don't talk like that!" She smirked. "You know you love tennis." Catching eye of the box, which had now been closed up, she looked to me for questioning. "What's that?"

"That?" I asked, turning to see where she was looking, coming up with the first excuse. "Just some screenplays I was sending over to Solomen. He just finished them."

Someday, Amanda would be able to know. Just not when things were so foggy, that not even I could tell what was going on. But someday.


	2. Salutations

**_Chapter 2: Salutations _**

**_Trevor's POV_**

Sometimes, I don't even know who's blood it is.

I would black out, some days. . Most days. I still do. It was kind of funny. Just coming to, and finding my hands under the rush of a squeaky faucet. The water in the sink, a dull, shiny red.

I still never know who's blood it is I'm washing off. My shrink says maybe, it's my own. Maybe I'm "hurting myself without my own consent", or "taking out my unfiltered childhood anger on my own well being". Whatever the fuck that means. I know, man, I know, when I find teeth in the garbage disposal, and dried flecks of pink matter underneath my fingernails, that I have been a naughty boy.

I'd like to think that I'm proud of it. And most days, I know that I am.

Most days.

The way I see it, we're bad, and ain't no cups of sugar gonna' ready our asses for the bakery, let alone the Sunday sermon. We live, we die, and there is nothing else for us. Even the breaths we take are stolen. People like me. And Michael. Especially Michael.

Michael is the prettiest scum I have ever had the pleasure to wash from my hands. And I will wash him away, and every god damned time, he will worm his way back into my fingernails. I hate him.

And I love him more than anyone I have ever hated.

I always told myself I'd piss on his grave, until I cried on it. Zero regrets.

But he, like I, and like everyone else, is a bag of shit destined for a toe tag. Good for nothing but to stuff a body bag. He knew this. And I think I knew he knew this the day he broke the trailer door.

"I want to put a hit out on someone." The door was down in much the same way a cap pops from a beer bottle. The thing flew clear off when he flew clear in. Maybe I'd have kicked him, or spat at him for it, if he hadn't looked like his eyes were going to fall out of his head.

"Aren't we feeling entitled to Trevor's help today?" My attention was paid to a nudey mag, that for once, believe it or not, I wasn't really fully invested in. "Who, anyway?"  
If he was getting old then, than he's old now. I remember tipping my nose above the mag, and being unable to decide if I wanted to look back down. His face was once, a fruit of the gods, smooth and chiseled in all of it's glory, and fucking ripe, at that. I'd like to say it rotted with age. Sunken. Eaten by the sun, and pulled into wrinkles, and bags, by the hands of stress.

So, yes. He looked old, and done, and tired. And he wouldn't answer me.

"Yeah, uh, Mikey? It's very rude to break down a guy's fucking door if you haven't got a good reason. You're lucky I don't put a hit out on you. Dick shit."

"No. Uh. Yeah." He mumbled. I don't like mumblers. But I let him talk, as his body halted, and tumbled to a sit on the floor. "That's-...That's what I need. The hit. It's on me. I need...To put a hit out on myself."

The tone in his voice was a drug I had never taken. It was new. Exhilarating. Shaky. And I let it into my veins, as I watched his features flicker and tremble like an old movie.  
My tongue hit the roof of my mouth, and almost sort of clicked, as I rose, and gripped the siding of the countertop. This was news. And I didn't know how to read it.  
"Why would you pay someone a good brick of money to do something you could achieve by driving a screwdriver through your ear?"

"Fuck you." His voice cracked out of that drug that was this new tone, and I did not snap back to reality. He was stumbling his words. Twiddling his fingers. "The FIB. They wanna' kill Amanda-An-And fucking Jim, and Trace, and-...They wanna' do it because of me, but If I die, they can't do it. They can't. They won't."

"Look. Michael. Sweetheart. Buddy. Pal." I did not move from my spot. Let alone, offer him a sweet tone. "If the FIB wants to kill someone, they're not going to stop just because another funeral is already in the works. Why don't you mosey on off, and get on your black clothes. Save the morgue some work."

He hated me. As I joked, he hated me, and I have never seen a dead man come to life, but I assume it went something like that. In under three seconds, Michael was up, and I was against a wall. His fingers curled around my neck. I only didn't fight back because this interested me.

"Stop it. Fucking stop." His breath was hot. Angry. "You are not Amanda. Stop pretending like you have something to pout about, because you're not twenty five anymore, and I have a god damned family."

"God damned family, eh?" Anger, I believe, is a light switch. And you can flip it with just about anything. "If god damned your family, then why the fuck do you want to save them? Get the FUCK OFF OF ME."

He was gone by my own hand. Pushed back, into much the same position I was. Only I lingered back. Enjoying every second greedily of watching him feel how I did.  
"I have no intention of letting your family die, Michael, and I'm not going to." My voice hit it's crack, too. Issues were lit. My issues. Thoughts. Such as why Michael only came to me for help anymore. And what was I going to get out of this?

Every vein pulsating, and heating my aching head, I pointed him down. "But I ain't your maid, Mikey. And I'm pretty fucking tired of cleaning up your messes, because you know what? I don't think you like me very fucking much, bud."

"What?"

"What? What?" My mimic was not spot on. Just angry. "Don't act like you don't fucking know what I'm talking about. I'm not your friend. I'm not your buddy. I'm your errand whore."

Mikey, oh, Mikey. His face did not falter from that same, stupid expression, and I did not expect it to. I watched him, and his stare did not once flicker, or shift, or do any of the shit I was even scouting for. He just looked. And breathed.

I'm sure it was a minute or two later until he spoke. The only thing to move were those poor, poor, quivering lips. "My family is going to die because you're a jealous little cunt."

"No." I put my head down. Something in him was not worth looking at. And something in me was unworthy of looking. "No, they're not, and you wanna' know why?"  
I do not care that I slipped through the boundaries of tame. Not a fuck given, and I stood up like I really believed that.

"Because I am not a jealous little cunt. You shut up, Michael." I maybe shook. And quite possibly, my pointer finger was back to his chest as a sneer curled it's way onto my face. "You shut the FUCK UP. I am a good friend. I am a good fucking friend, and you have NO GOD DAMNED RIGHT to try and convince me otherwise, you sack of shit."  
He didn't hear me call him a sack of shit. I didn't either. Punches in the face are funny things. And when I threw one into Michael, his face caught it quite well, and I was not guilty that he was so good at receiving punches. Maybe I was proud.

But when he didn't hit back, I was not proud anymore. Lion's attack to kill, and sometimes I am a lion. I think that things like monkeys attack to annoy the shit out people, is what I think. To egg them on. To get them to hit back. If this is the case, I was a fucking monkey, and Michael was my angry muse.

He held his face, and huffed like the fat shit he is. Only bleeding a little bit. Maybe just right around his gums, or his upper lip. When the blood trickled, I wanted to wipe it off, and Michael is the only person that that happens with. I didn't. I waited for him to grace me with murder, and when he didn't, I was worried.

"Hit me." My breath was short, and my voice, crackling as it burned with something like anger. I pushed him. He did not change. "Fucking hit me, do it, right here."

"No."

"HIT ME."

"No." And he was just as sturdy. Just as strong. He breathed. Spoke again. "You can hurt me. Hell, you can murder me right here, but you won't kill my kids." He didn't know the half. And yet, he did. "You won't let them die."

Seconds of bad eye-contact were shared before I opened my mouth again, curling my fingers into fists. "You're an ill man, Michael Townley. You're a fat slob, and you'll never be anything but a fat slob."

This wasn't pleasing to him, apparently. He looked almost pouty. Until again, I spoke, and my fists were detangled, as my rage fell asleep for the moment.  
"But you're my fat slob. And I'm doing this for Trace and Jim. Not you. And never, under any roof in hell, for that pole crawling crab you call a wife. Now before you get offended and cry for mommy, hop off of my property, you rotten kid."

I didn't watch him trail away, but I heard him as I toppled back into my greasy seating arrangement. Again, I wasn't watching. So I'm unsure how I know he smiled when he spoke.

"Thanks, asshole."

I had already said goodbye with my fist to his face.

The trailer door did not close, because yes, Michael had prevented that when he knocked it over like the dumb shit he is. I listened for his footsteps. Twenty four, and they were gone. Alone, again. Bored, again.

Quiet.

And there was an unknown comfort in knowing who's blood was on my hands. There are days like that. Only some days.


End file.
